Friday Flash

“Lizzy! Could you for pity’s sake stay still?” he roared, face flushed with frustration and anger. He flung the brush to the floor and paced, running paint splattered fingers through his thick auburn curls, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry, I’m really trying but it’s freezing in here. I know artists don’t make much money, but can’t you put on some heating?” she pouted, huddling into a tight curl, wrapped her arms around herself, covering her breasts.

He felt his blood pressure soar and fought the urge to march over and show her the back of his hand, “Stay calm, never strike in anger,” he thought.

“Take five,” he tossed a blanket towards her and left the studio to go for a cigarette.

–

Sucking the smoke deep into his lungs, his mind reeled. She was breathtakingly beautiful: her skin, like alabaster; perfect soft, generous curves; round, full breasts with small pale nipples and… that face! God, her face; it had haunted him in his dreams since the first day he saw her. Heart-shaped, with a tiny pointed chin, an upturned, elfin nose covered in a smattering of brown freckles, framed by a short, close-cropped boyish hairstyle, that only served to accentuate her femininity. He knew at once he needed to paint her.

–

She was quiet in class, rarely offering her opinion, preferring to sit and listen, take notes. Although, when he challenged her directly one day, she spoke articulately, and surprisingly passionately, about the piece under review, skillfully and convincingly defending her interpretation. He enjoyed watching the rose tint that bloomed in her cheeks as she argued her case.

–

She was proving to be a challenging subject, not only because of her shivering and twitching, but he was struggling to capture her essence, her energy; the indefinable quality she carried… her aura.

Stubbing out the cigarette with the toe of his boot, he turned to re-enter the studio.

–

She was gone.

“Lizzy?”

Silence.

“Lizzy!!!” he roared, growing more impatient by the second.

“I’m here! I just needed the loo,” blanket still wrapped around her, she walked over to her position and faced him, “I’m ready,” her chin lifted defiantly, as she discarded the wooly throw and stood before him, self assured and with a complete absence of inhibition.

He was aware of an ache at his groin; felt himself harden and strain against his jeans.

She lowered herself to the floor and began to arrange herself. Casting his eyes over the canvas beside him, he instantly knew what was wrong. He needed to portray her core self, reveal that incredible power she wielded quite unconsciously.

“No, not like that. Lie back. Open your legs for me,” he instructed, watching her hesitate for just a second before she acquiesced and parted her thighs, revealing a small dark V of hair and rosy pink lips.

His cock swelled.

He grabbed the canvas, threw it across the room and mounted a fresh one on the tripod, “Fresh start! Now, for god’s sake Lizzy, stay still!”

I watched her as she led me up the stairs; my eyes following the black seam on her stockings which disappeared under a tight black skirt that hugged her hips and ass, her high heels silent on the plush red carpet. She glanced back over her shoulder and offered me little smile. Her lips were painted a deep, dark red and were perfectly shaped against her smooth ivory skin.

Turning the key, she opened the door to my suite and slipped inside, turning on the lights. She gestured to the left, “The bathroom,” she walked on, pointing out things, “your luggage, Sir, and here is your bed.” She turned to face me, her eyebrows high, silently checking if I had a question.

I took a twenty from my wallet and held it out to her, “Thank you.”

Dipping her head, she looked up at my from under her dark lashes, a faint blush colouring her cheeks, “I’m sorry, Sir, we are not allowed to accept tips here. But thank you,” her voice was soft.

“I would be tempted to ask to you to make an exception for me but I don’t want to get you into trouble,” I replied.

She walked towards me, her brilliant blue eyes locked on mine, stopping a foot from me. I could smell her perfume, a woody, musky scent.

She reached out and pointed to a small button on the wall. I was surprised to notice her chipped nail polish, everything else about her was immaculate.

“If you want anything… anything at all, Sir, please just press this and I will come. I am here to serve you. Anything…”

She squeezed past me, barely brushing my chest with her shoulder and clicked the door closed.

I napped for a while, tired from my journey, and woke naked under the soft cotton sheets. My crotch throbbed with want. I closed my eyes and pictured her in her fitted classic black maid’s uniform, her curves hugged by the restrictive fabric. I imagined ripping her blouse open with my blade and exposing her milky white breasts. I wondered what her nipples were like… I decided they would be small and pink.

I thought of her kneeling before me, head bowed, the nape of her neck exposed beneath the impeccably shaped blue-black 1920’s style bob as she awaited instruction.

I thought of the things I wanted to do to her body. How I wanted to feel her skin redden under my palm as I spanked her generous, round bottom. How I wanted to trace my knife along her skin, leaving pink lines, as she lay completely still for me. How I wanted to push her head against my groin, making her take the full length of my cock into her throat.

A groan escaped my lips.

My eyes wandered to the small service button across the room, and I thought, “She had said if I needed ‘anything’”…

“You saw the poster outside, we get a free drink if we… just think of it as a dare, ok?” before turning her gaze to the barman, “Hey, we are here for the Sin To Win,” flashing a brilliant smile at him that earned her a wry cocked eyebrow in reply, as he continued polishing glasses.

“Sure thing, lady,” he slid a glass jar stuffed with pieces of folded paper across the bar, “Pick a Sin from the Bin. You girls should know, this ain’t no ordinary Happy Hour; no Sin, no drink,” his voice was raspy, difficult to make out over the background rock music.

Jules didn’t reply; instead she revolved her bar stool to take in the other customers in the room, peering into the half-light, until a smile spread across her lips and she rose to walk across the floor. Sasha picked up the tiny folded paper and read the Sin and couldn’t suppress her smile. This was perfect for Jules, just perfect.

The beat of the music changed from up-tempo rock to a deep, rhythmic bass beat. Jules swayed in time to it as she made her way over to a bearded man nursing a whiskey at a small wooden table in the centre of the bar.

A slow smile crept across the stranger’s face as she raised her arms over her head and swung her hips centimeters from his lap, her flimsy summer dress floating as she moved. Turning in a lazy half circle to present her ass to him, she rocked and grinded, never quite touching his body with hers, glancing over her shoulder at him through her long bronze curls occasionally. Just as the song drew near it’s end, he reached out as if to touch her, but Jules was fast, effortlessly sidestepping and giggling, “Not part of the deal, Mister!” before giving him the briefest flash of the pink thong under her dress and returning the bar.

“Your turn!” she laughed as she sipped her reward.

Sasha selected a note from the jar. Her eyes widened as they met with the barman’s, “Ok then, let’s do this,” and she leaned across the bar…

Silver clouds of smoke wafted lazily through the hazy beams of light that cast images of sweaty, humping, groaning bodies onto the big screen. The manager of this dive didn’t give two shits about health and safety or smoking bans. As long as the clientele paid for their tickets, they could do whatever they pleased as they sat in the dark; a sad brotherhood of lonely, horny men, quietly jacking themselves off to the perfect plastic pussies and money shots playing before them.

Janey grinned to herself. She would happily bet her paltry week’s wages that these guys never suspected the person tucked away up in the tiny room with the projector was a curvy chick; platinum blonde, streaked with jet black and hot pink flashes, cherry red lips and kohl stained eyes. They probably imagined an old balding guy, with a cigarette hanging from his puckered lips, tobacco stained fingers controlling the equipment, probably with his other hand shoved down his wrinkled trousers, doing exactly the same as the audience below.

Her face glowed in the reflected light from the screen as she watched the actors suck and lick, their glistening sculpted bodies writhing in fake ecstasy. Janey shook her head; as if these women were actually enjoying being pounded by a guy that resembles a mahogany sideboard, who clearly finds himself more attractive than the poor bitch he’s fucking.

“Any second now he’ll start to kiss his own biceps,” she sighed as the thought ran through her mind, I could make better porn than this shit…

She pictured Matt, the ticket guy; tall, skinny with an unkempt blonde mop, tortoiseshell glasses permanently perched on his nose. She imagined taking those glasses off and looking into his brown eyes; imagined cupping the back of his head and drawing his lips down to meet hers. Her fingers lifted the hem of her skirt and slipped beneath her underwear, finding herself already wet. Her fantasy-Matt’s tongue explored her mouth, as his hands did her body, squeezing her breasts and pressing himself to her… his erection hard and hot against her stomach. Her eyes closed, she played with her clit while her other hand sought out her nipple, pulling on it and pinching. She didn’t need long, she could feel her orgasm building inside her, but she wanted to enjoy the scene in her head for longer. Her fingers left her clit and caressed her outer lips; the feeling of teetering on the edge of release was torturous but divine. Hips rocking, fingers teasing herself, she knew she couldn’t delay it much longer. She pictured Matt’s thick cock in his hand as he guided it to her waiting mouth.

A shrill beeping startled her. The signal to change reels sounded in the cramped room eliciting a groaned, “Fuck!”, from Janey.

“Fuckin’ cheapskate! Why can’t you up grade the goddamned system and enter the 21st century?”

Wiping her hand on her skirt, Janey stood and loaded a new reel, “Fucker!”

I woke up this morning still feeling unwell, but all my aches, pains and coughing were forgotten when I opened my email to find that my gorgeous friend, Leonora, a writer and photographer I greatly admire, had posted my Spotlight piece on her blog.

The things she wrote about me touched me deeply and I need to take this opportunity to thank her… Thank you!

If you haven’t visited her blog, (what?????!!!!!), do it!

She is a prolific writer and editor of erotica and also runs a fantastic flash fiction meme called Friday Flash, which I highly recommend you read and contribute to.

As if that isn’t enough, she co-runs yet another exciting photography blog called Click Click 365, which I look forward to visiting everyday to see what arresting images the four talented photographers have shared.

She untied the burgundy satin bow and slipped the ribbon from the embossed cream oblong. Opening the box to reveal layers of silver and gold tissue paper, she smiled and lifted out his gift.

“Well?”

“It’s lovely! Very sexy Sir. Thank you.”

She listened closely to his instructions before hanging up.

*

The restaurant was busy and it was not long before she had a trickle of sweat running down her spine as she ushered customers to their tables, took orders and delivered hot plates to hungry and impatient diners. Longing for her break, she gulped some ice water behind the bar between servings. Her phone beeped in her apron pocket. She knew he expected her to read the text immediately. Sneakily she slipped her phone out and quickly scanned the messages. Grinning she fired off a quick reply and picked up her order pad to resume work.

Finally her break time arrived and she escaped to the cool of the back alley, the sweat on her skin instantly drying in the breeze.

Glancing around to be sure she was alone, she began her task.

Hitching her tight black skirt up over her hips, she angled her phone and snapped a few shots to send to him, demure, legs closed, just a hint of what was to come.

Her phone beeped – “Good girl. More.”

Undoing her tailored black work shirt, she felt the cool night air caress her breasts and felt her nipples harden and peep out through the holes in the fishnet body stocking that had tortured her, making her overheat as she waited tables. Pinching her nipples between her fingers to stretch them fully she took another picture for him, beginning to feel more and more turned on, hoping he would reply quickly.

“Who is a filthy little tramp hanging out in dark alleyways by the dumpsters, playing with herself?”

His voice startled her. Almost dropping her phone, she turned and saw his outline against the hazy streetlight at the open end of the alley.

“Oh! You scared me!”

He chuckled low under his breath as he cupped her chin in his hand, “I need to keep you on your toes little girl,” his eyes travelled down her body, taking in her exposed, disheveled state.

Leading her around behind the giant dumpster, away from any potential prying eyes he commanded, “Open. Let Sir see his cunt,” as he stepped back to appreciate the view.

Leaning back against the concrete wall, she spread her legs wide and reached down to the open crotch of fishnet to part her lips for him.

“Look at that pretty wet cunt. Is my little girl hot for Sir?”

She licked her lips, nodded, “Yes.”

“Does my little tramp want Sir’s touch?”

Breathless, “Yes please.”

“Touch yourself.”

She moved her hand and slid two fingers inside her hot, needy cunt.

“Play little girl, fuck yourself for me.”

One hand squeezing her breast, she circled her lips and clit, her hips rocking rhythmically, eyes locked on his face as he watched her get closer and closer to release.

“Oh little girl, you look so good. Do you want to come?”

Nodding her head vigorously, panting, “Yes! Yes please. May I come?”

Smiling, he shook his head slowly, “No. I think your break is over sweet girl. No orgasm just yet. Now lick those fingers and fix yourself up.”

Struggling to swallow down the groan of frustration in her throat, she glared at him, knowing that look will cost her later but not caring, she sucked on her fingers, tasting her own arousal, before arranging her clothes.

“I will see you inside. I seem to have developed an appetite.”

He turned and walked towards the streetlight, to the front of the restaurant.

“Dammit!” she cursed under her breath as she opened the door to the kitchen and went back to work, knowing his eyes will be following her, burning into her like a laser until the end of her shift.

The constant, unsatisfied throb between her legs would make it feel like a long night.

They came just after dawn. We watched them approach across the field, in their mid covered trucks. We saw the flames of our neighbours’ houses and outhouses. We heard their cries. We heard the shots.

Papa grabbed the shotgun, passed it to me and bundled me down into the cellar, eyes wide in panic, his finger pressed hard against his lips silently ordering me to be quiet. He grabbed my face in his rough calloused hands and kissed me fiercely on my forehead before closing the hatch and leaving me in the dusty darkness, peering up through the gap in the floorboards.

They crashed through the door like the brutes they were. The one in charge, wearing a grey and black peaked cap and ridiculous looking trousers, stepped out from behind the others and slammed the butt of his pistol into my dear Papa’s face. I bit down on my fist to muffle the cry of horror that threatened to break free from my lips.

The soldier translated for his superior who then snapped some orders in his guttural voice and I watched as the others dragged my father from our farmhouse.

The one who spoke our language remained and cast his eyes around the kitchen, from ceiling to floor. As his eyes surveyed the wooden floorboards I involuntarily flinched. He stilled instantly and crouched down to peer through the gap in the strips, his eyes brilliantly blue and searching.

I froze, holding my breath, wishing I could make myself invisible. A small smile played on his lips as he rose back to standing, his head inclined in the slightest of nods and he turned to leave.

I remained in the cellar until my overwhelming need to use the toilet drove me from my sanctuary. I hesitantly opened the hatch and peeped out. All was silent. I crawled out of the cellar and quickly used the toilet. Once relieved, I searched the farmland and outhouse for Papa but he was gone. The smoke from our neighbours’ farms hung black on the horizon and I sank to my knees and wept. I was alone.

Exhausted from the morning’s events, I fell into a troubled sleep on the day bed in the kitchen, tossing and turning only to awake with a start, screaming from the nightmare that invaded my slumber. I sat upright, sweating and shaking, tears once again flowing down my cheeks. A sound from outside startled me – surely the sound was footsteps, very quietly at the other side of the door.

I hurried, as soundlessly as I could, towards the cellar hatch but the door swung open before I reached it.

He stood silhouetted in the light of the open door as I crouched by the hatch, like prey about to be captured.

He squatted to my level and smiled at me, his long black leather boots creaking as he crouched. He took from his backpack some bread and cheese wrapped in wax paper and offered it to me. The kindness in his pale blue eyes conflicting with the insignia on his chest and everything it stood for.

This was how it began. The affair with the man that saved me, the man that protected me and hid me until the day, one day, when he never returned to my farmhouse.

My Franz. The man I came to love over the course of that summer before the Americans came, with their cigarettes and chocolate, to save us.

The man, whose bright blue eyes gazed back at me from my daughters face as I held her to my breast in the spring.